“I would’ve pegged you for a country girl,” he said after a beat. “Were you raised in town, then?”
Ambrosia shook her head. “Oh no. I grew up in Somersetshire—Rockford Beach. Aside from a few brief visits to neighboring villages, I’ve hardly been anywhere else.”
He glanced over, brow arched. “Raised in the country, and yet you don’t know the first thing about horses?” There wasn’t cruelty in his tone, exactly—but there was incredulity.
She dropped her gaze to her lap. It wasn’t fair for him to sneer at something he knew nothing about. “It wasn’t up to me,” she all but whispered.
That drew a moment of silence.
Then: “So. Monsieur Bloomington wouldn’t allow pets, but he’s fine letting his wife traipse across England without a chaperone?”
“Monsieur Bloomington is six feet underground,” she replied evenly.
“Ah.” He paused. “My condolences.”
“I would thank you, but they’re quite unnecessary.” Her tone was light—unburdened.
She kept her eyes forward, though she could feel him studying her.
“Forgive me, princesse,” he finally said, “but you don’t exactly reek of sorrow. Is it possible that Monsieur Bloomington is... imaginaire? An invention, perhaps—to lend a lady an air of respectability?”
Frowning, Ambrosia turned her head. “Do women really do that?”
“They do.”
“How strange.” She considered it a moment, then gave a small, unladylike snort. “Trust me, if I’d gone to the trouble of inventing a husband, I’d have made him far more agreeable than Harrison Bloomington.”
She didn’t add that he’d have more closely resembled someone like the man currently holding the reins—if only in the jawline and shoulders department.
He tilted his head. “So did you off him, then?”
He wasn’t laughing, not quite, but somehow he still managed to sound thoroughly amused, so casual that what he was asking nearly slipped right past her.
Such a question should have been shocking, insulting—the height of both, in fact—but Ambrosia couldn’t quite bring herself to take up any of those feelings, regardless of what emotions one should express in her situation.
“Of course I didn’t,” she said simply, straightening her back. Then added under her breath, “Not that I wasn’t tempted.”
His head turned sharply.
“Perhaps I am the one in danger,” he said, his eyes wide with mock alarm even as he grinned. “Am I safe beside you, princesse? Or should I sleep with one eye open?”
Ambrosia clenched her teeth—and her thighs. Good Lord, what was wrong with her? She’d never been affected by a man’s voice before.
It had to be the accent. That soft French lilt should be illegal.
She glared at him. “I am not a murderess, Mr. Beckman.” Then, acting completely out of character, she shrugged and added, “Yet.”
This time his laughter echoed off the trees around them.
“We’ve a long drive ahead of us, my dear Madame Bloomington. You might as well tell me all about it. You are not wearing black, so his death cannot have been a recent tragedy.”
“I came out of half-mourning three days ago.” She had upheld full mourning for one year and one day, and then six months of dull greys.
She had fulfilled her duty.
Mr. Beckman raised his brows. “Ah… So you shed your widow’s weeds, packed up your worldly goods, and—don’t tell me—you shall be moving in with a distant aunt for the remainder of your days? Do you intend to act as her companion, then?”
Ambrosia’s hands curled into fists. “I most definitely am not about to become anybody’s poor relation. I am a woman of independent means.” Her voice rang with conviction, perhaps a touch too loud for the quiet road. “I’ve managed a household, I can balance accounts, and I’ve a place waiting for me in London. I intend to make a life for myself.”
